


things he knew happened

by vizarding



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series), Silent Hill Downpour
Genre: Coping, Gen, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Canon, Trans Character, Victim Blaming, brief mention of pedophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vizarding/pseuds/vizarding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silent Hill gives closure to many things, but not all things. Anne is out of her wits in how to deal with people and social interactions. Murphy is most definitely not a bed of emotional stability. There's things Silent Hill didn't address. (Things he still ran away from.) They are friends, in some odd way, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	things he knew happened

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place around eight months after their experiences in silent hill, post the forgiveness ending. Murphy is a trans man, very late to realize in his life, and transitioned after having Charlie. (Carol is also trans, if you want to know.)  
> Content warnings: Discussions and talk sexual assault with Sewell, the mentions of Napier and Charlie are brief but they're there. This isn't necessary something I think happened, rather it was something cathartic to write, with two people who aren't good with emotions dealing with something hard.

It was a call Anne did not expect, nor want, received at 2:43 am— but then calls like those are never expected or especially wanted. Especially to see Pendleton’s ID flashing over her screen, the brightness wrenching her eyes open from the sleep she rather not leave. At all. On a Sunday night (Monday morning). _Especially_ for him.

And yet, upon hanging up, there she went. Walking out the door at 3:01 am. Her jacket and boots pulled over mismatched pajamas, hastily tied and zippered, car door thrown open in the damp night air. There she went, driving over freshly soaked gravel, fog still creeping across the road after the fall shower. There she went, no matter how much she always argued she wasn’t his baby sitter, that she had her own life, that she was moving on— moving on might involve being a little nicer to him.

Especially given the situation she was presented with.

It wasn’t the familiar voice that greeted her. “What do you want?”

“You’re Anne, right?”

“Who is this, and how did you get Pendleton’s phone?” She stifled a yawn, glaring up to the lights stretching across the ceiling, coming and going as did the traffic outside. Counting in her head, _give him at least 10 seconds before you shut him down_.

“Look, can you… can you come here and help me out? We haven’t really met, officially, yet but… Murphy, he freaked out. He locked himself in the bathroom. See he—“

So the one in Pendleton’s bed. Right. Last time she… hesitated to call it checking up on him, but he was still a (supposedly dead) fugitive and he was an idiot and not exactly the most inconspicuous person. Apparently finding this is the perfect time to date or whatever he was doing. “Do you realize what time it is.”

“I know you two have history and you know what he’s been through—”

He didn’t seem to be listening or caring, not that she was doing much of that either. Just trying to think how long it would take to knock out. “It’s almost three in the morning, some of us have jobs.”

“Can you listen to me?” That was louder, sterner, dragged her further from the sleep she so desperately wanted to crawl back to. He took Anne’s annoyed silence as a reason to continue to explain. “Look, I don’t know what relationship the two of you have. But I know he trusts you. And right now, I don’t know if I can do anything for him, this is the most I’ve seen him emote since we started seeing each other.” A pause. “Please. He won’t open the door. I don’t know how to help him.”

Anne, of course, didn’t like being snapped at. Especially by men, especially by men she did not know. But she let him continue to speak, regardless of that. Let him explain what exactly happwned, or at least what he understood happened. Which wasn't much.

It sounded like Murphy and water. Which was something… she certainly wasn’t unfamiliar with. After their shared history. (That she liked to think didn't happen despite having no way to deny it happened.) Not that she’d like to admit such weakness in recent times, not to herself (or her therapist). (And especially not to Pendleton, she said that a lot but she didn’t care. She meant it.) Either way, she was on her way, she’d shake him out of it, throw him back in bed, and leave. It would be easy.

Why didn’t it feel like this would be easy.

Murphy wasn’t the outwardly emotional person, that’s for sure, and his— whatever this guy was, describes him as sobbing? It’s probably an exaggeration. Since he doesn’t do that shit often, it’d take you off guard, right? He’ll snap right up, it’ll be okay.

Slowing to a stop light let Anne properly slam the heels of her fists into the steering wheel and shake the wretched thing and all the proper sorts of ways to get out her frustration before some delicacy was necessary. This sort of thing. This caring about people thing wasn’t easy for her anymore. Perfectly content with the years spent driven solely to get her hands on Pendleton’s neck (or she thought perfectly content, her life is a mess and she’s not sure where to go from here, constantly emotionally constipated and isolated with no friends and a homophobic ex-husband who despises her) and now she’s driving out to some shitty little motel at 3:23 am to see if he’s alright because he shed a few damn tears?

Anne sat in her car a good three more minutes once parked outside before finally pulling her keys from the ignition and kicking the door open. Procrastinating here was doing her nothing. She knew this. 

Greeted at the door by said… whatever the man was to Murphy, thick hair tied back in a bun and clearly as hastily dressed as her. He said he’d give her time, he was going to find a twenty-four hour place to buy… something. She didn’t pay much attention, just let him leave. Looking around, still apparently dragging her feet before confronting _why she damn came here_. Murphy’s suitcase sat in the corner, same place as last time, clothes neatly folded on top of it rather than inside it. Photo album on the nightstand, same place as last time as well. Nothing much had changed. An empty room. 

A pathetic whimpering barely grazed her ears and she tried to ignore it. The fact such a sound could come from Murphy seemed so… impossible. The bed was a mess, covers thrown about the ground. The only thing actually _new_ in the room was... that sound and the satchel on the table. It must belong to that man. She should have asked for his name so she could stop questioning what Murphy is doing in his personal time that she didn’t particularly care to know. Anything else, anything else, there _was_ nothing else, she had to just. Accept it. 

And knock on the door to the bathroom. Which she did. “Pendleton. It’s Anne. Open the door and let me in.”

There was silence.

Then sounds of something. Then the lock clicking. She took her own time, running a hand over her freckled face, pinching the bridge of her nose, convincing herself not to turn around, that she’s here for a reason and pride shouldn’t stand in front of helping a person she— 

Stopped herself from finishing that thought and just opened the goddamn door.

In the time of her small crisis, Murphy had retreated back to the corner of the bathroom he’d taken refuge in before she got there (she guessed) wrapped haphazardly in sheets, and pressed near the wall in front of the tub. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a sound, just sat on the floor in a pitiful hunch. 

Alright, Anne, speak. Easy, not angry. Anger won’t fix _this_. “Pendleton, really? You fall in the shower with just a bit of water and break down? Come on, I thought you had more gut to you. You’re worrying your… man.” Fuck, fuck shit, she should have asked his _name_. “It’s not my job to get you back on your feet.”

Something about this was building in her throat. Some sort of awful, terrible thickness, clotting and making it hard to breathe. The air was wrong. She was so uncomfortable. It called for a different tone and she knew it, but there was a struggle to find the right words. Why was it so hard. Just do the damn right thing. But what was the right thing here?

“Is that what he told you caused this?” Murphy lifted his head. He looked like shit. That was harsh, but it was true. Something about him looked so hollowed and faded; his cheek was red and swollen, sensitive with a fresh bruise growing. He noticed her staring and released his grip on the sheets to tap the edge of the tub with his knuckles. “That’s from here.” She wasn’t going to make assumptions (she might have) and eyes diverted from the explanation. 

He looked… very alone. There on the floor. So she took one stiff step, then another, and then used her arm to support herself against the wall and slid down beside him. All so mechanical and to form of what you’re supposed to do, rather than, she didn’t know, seeming like she was actually concerned for him. She— she might be, but something about her felt so fake right now. She hadn’t given this before. It felt like the false sympathy.

“I don’t blame him. For not explaining it, it was… you might not want to be responsible for it. It’s fine.” He gulped, his throat just as thick as Anne’s, if not thicker; it felt like something was trying to climb up and out of him and it made his hair stand on end. Such an awful taste in his mouth, it shouldn't be there. “It’s not his fault, he wouldn’t really know. I didn’t know.”

Murphy was just as surprised as Anne was that she was actually here. Not that he wasn’t grateful. He thought of voicing such a thing, momentarily, before deciding against it. He couldn’t gauge much of what was appropriate compared to inappropriate right now and. Having Anne sit next to him was better than watching Anne leave, which is what would probably happen if he did open his mouth. But speaking was necessary right now. He let her in. He felt the words trying to crawl out of his throat past the heavy lump, but it only made him want to vomit and he was sure that would repulse her as well.

Both sat there, silent, not with one clue over what to do next; truly hopeless in this sort of situation. Murphy rocked ever so slightly, the motion all but keeping him contained as his eyes were glued to the floor. Anne tapped a nail agains the shower rug away from his line of sight, mulling over exactly what to do because he wasn’t improving. This wasn’t a quick shake and out.

He let her in. Clearly. Talking of some sort would help. She had to open the door somehow. Closing her eyes, detaching herself that it was Murphy. An awful thing, because it was him who needed something right now, but she still didn’t know how to give it. “What happened then?”

The rocking stopped. She was talking to him, and he knew it, but it took a moment to start again. He started before and then stopped and talking might make her leave. That’s what he thought, over and over, that’s what always makes her leave but here she was asking for him to speak. But where to even start.

Murphy shook his head. “It was… We were just having fun, that is. It’s not his fault.” Still can’t look at Anne. Can’t look at much right now. “It was just fun. I’ve done it before. Playing around with roles, that sort of thing.” 

He let his head rest back against the tub letting it lull a bit, like he was looking at Anne, but not really. Looking past her, not at her or her face; somehow managing a smile? It feels so odd on his face, he doesn’t know why he’s smiling in particular. “You probably don’t want to hear this. Playing cops and vandals or whatever you want to call it. I’ve done this before. It’s always fine.

“But there was something he said. I can see why didn’t want to tell you, we were playing a role, and what he said sounded awful. Outside the context.” It was getting there, to the part he’d have to say, the thing he doesn’t talk about. Words were never a speciality of his, and it certainly wasn’t much better right now. “He called me.. some sort of… treat, I don’t remember. I can’t remember right now, it’s better that way. But it all came back. I just— wanted to breathe in here, but tripped, and—” 

He wasn’t smiling anymore, which was good. He didn’t like how he wore it, or why, when he did. Possibly to make Anne feel easier, but he wasn’t feeling easy and this subject wasn’t easy. It was awful. Nausea. Needles. Poking in his stomach and over his skin. How did this start.

Murphy stole a glance at Anne. Just one small one. There was concern, some confusion. He was being vague, he knew it. “Water didn’t help.” 

He had to think. Pick the words he chose next. Think. Let the air fill up and suffocate the closed room, gloved black hands curled around his neck and crushing it and making it so hard to breathe. It wasn’t actually happening, but it vividly felt like it. She asked, so he should talk about it, because he hasn’t talked about it. And she hasn’t left yet.

(And he wants to talk about it.) (With her.)

Maybe it’s because he’d already come out to her. It’d been surprisingly easy. His identity meant so little to him at this point, and he’d wondered why (known why) that was, but chose not to dwell on it. Coming out was easy, just handing her a picture, there’s photo evidence of something That might be difficult to say. 

Anne had seen enough of him in Silent Hill, there’s no reason not to lay the bones bare. Here, it was less so the other feeling (of his identity ripped away, that so little of himself mattered anymore), and more about trust. He trusted Anne, and she was here.

He was trembling again. Had he ever stopped? He was unsure.

Anne was staring at him, he knew that, and he wasn’t sure what she was saying by staring at him. But she hadn’t left, she hadn’t gotten mad. He didn’t understand her anger at times, but in that moment, he remembered— that she forgave him, that she covered for him, that she is somewhere safe if she’s sitting here right now.

“You know. It’d been some sort of opposite luck, being sent to a men’s prison. Being identified properly. I needed it for my plan but. I didn’t have time to be afraid.” He licked his lips. Voice trembling with him now. “Frank… your father, he looked out for me. Tried to keep me from being alone. But you can’t prevent that sort of thing. Bad things happen to bad people who make bad choices. I was both of those things. He’d told me, constantly, to stay away from Sewell, but I wouldn’t listen.”

He was curling tighter in on himself. He felt so odd, and fragmented talking about it, right here, in earnest. He’d never denied what it was, or what happened. He knew what happened to him, (told himself) he accepted it. But saying it out loud, it felt like part of him wasn’t there, it was back there, happening again, the hand crushing his wind pipe as it held him down. That fucking voice of his, nasally, wretched, sticking in his mind, to his ear, wet, and hot, and mocking him, and laughing at him. That rotting smell of an old mattress, the thick dampness of somewhere out of view, some thing is leaking, someone should fix it. Drip drip drip as there's grunting and pain. Contrast to the starched smell of the office and his knees ache and it's hard to comprehend the idea he's not kneeling in that moment. He wasn’t there, but then, he was. Then. He caught it out of the corner of his eye, Anne’s hand inching over.

She didn’t touch him.

But she put her hand there. Near him. The small comfort. She was there and she was listening, still, she hadn’t left, and neither had he. Thst moment what then, and they were now. Barely.

“Offered me a deal, I didn’t want it. Not for that. But then he talked about Napier. It made sense at the time.” Hands slid down to his stomach, fingers grazing over the scar over and over. Something grounding about the texture, besides Anne's hand, something anchoring him to the now of that moment. It’s what he uses to remind himself. He used it then, too, for a different reason. Before he pulled his clothes back on, the faint touch. “For Charlie.” _I should have fought back._ He doesn’t say that, it still seems like a lie. He agreed to it, every time, but he knows what it is. Especially the first time. But the hand on his throat holds it tighter and he can’t get the words out. He’s lying and liars don't get to speak.

“Your father noticed bruises. He wasn’t happy, tried to ask. He was a good man to me, more than I deserved.” His face was getting hot, _everything_ was heating up not just his face, and he let the sheet shrug off his bare shoulders. He needed it to go away, the claustrophobic heat, the suffocating gloves, the awful stench, the walls closing in for him, squeezing him so tightly. Eye burning as he stared down.

“He’d say awful things, like you’d expect.” His identity didn't matter to him much anymore. (Torn from his hands.) It was a joke. Something funny. He never got the punchline. “He’d always talk about this, though, and it. Charlie, he had complications. I needed a c-sec. ...He’d always say how ugly it was.” ‘ _Slit it open again.’_ Murphy didn’t need to say that part. “It’s always… It’s the last thing I have left to think of Charlie by. It’s all I had left in there. And he wouldn’t leave it alone. Wouldn’t stop talking about it, or touching it.” 

A sharp intake of breath. He knew the tears were going to come again, but he was tired and his face ached from tears already shed, and the bruise, the very large bruise that he couldn't much mind. Other things hurting more. Crying wasn’t something he wanted right now. But he doesn't get what he want, not in this small space, this hard to breathe space. “When it was happening… all I could think of… was this what he had to experience? Was this all he knew before he died?” That thickness in his throat only kept building and all he could taste was bile. The hands around his throat only wrapped tighter and stronger; he choked, the tears falling. “I should know how he felt. Is how I thought at the time. I didn’t think about myself at all. It wasn’t happening to me, it was happening to him, and I should know. I should—”

Murphy stopped. He stopped because he choked again and he also stopped because there wasn’t much more to say. He didn’t know why he was crying, he didn’t feel like he should be crying. It did happen to him, the rape happened to him, and the rape is what ruined the night, the rape is what ruined the fucking word cupcake for him, and the rape is why Anne is here right now. And why he’s talking about the rape is because it happened to him.

But at the time, he hadn’t really thought of it happening to him.

There wasn’t more left to say, and he sunk down further against the tub and let Sewell’s hands finish him off, crushing his larynx and making it impossible to breathe. There wasn’t much more dramatic crying to have, nor sobbing, nor anything of the like. The burning moment passed, and now he simply felt empty. 

Then there was something cold in his hand. A glass of water. It was Anne, pushing it into his grip, and sitting him up, and pushing it again to his lips and through the cotton in his ears, he’s sure he heard her say drink. What would drinking do to help anything right now? But he did it any way. Because she listened, and she was here, and there was no reason not to. There was nothing more to say, and he wondered if she’d leave. 

But she didn't. She simply sat beside him and made sure he drank.

“My throat hurts. I don’t talk enough to talk that much.” That might have been a joke but she didn’t laugh.

She did, however, continue sit next to him and— this is something that obviously needs an answer. A proper emotional reaction and a proper set of words are not something she’s been able to muster in a long time. But it would be a necessity, in this moment. Disgust and revile were filling her, which was an obvious reaction and one she was familiar with, but it’s not what he needed. Not that she knew what he needed.

She cared about Pendleton.

She cared about _Murphy_ , and right now, he needed _something_.

“I’m not happy… that this happened to you. No matter how it happened, no matter the circumstance, you didn’t deserve it. And I’m sorry.” A pause. Fists kept to her sides, where he couldn’t see them shaking. “To be able to talk about it, it’s a goddamn lot. And. “ Shit. Say something else. Shit.

“I’m not really happy about it either, when I think about it. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.” He wasn’t saying it to spite her, or throw her words back in his face. He attempted to make it clear, raising his eyes to her. He couldn’t keep them there, however. It was still difficult with the air in the bathroom. “I… Thank you. For the other thing.”

When was the relief supposed to come? There had to be some sort. After all that sort of talk, isn’t that’s what’s supposed to happen. It couldn’t be because he’d already resolved that it was rape. (He still felt he deserved part of it.) (When he accepted it happened to _him_.) (Maybe that’s why.)

“Can I ask you something?” Anne took a seat across from him, leaning against the cabinets.

“Go ahead.”

“This isn’t any thing to judge you—”

“You can just ask.”

Anne motioned at the door. “Did the guy you were hooking up with know? Any sort of—” She’d only thought of it out of concern, but actually saying it out loud felt out of place and insensitive. Which sounded just fucking like her, goddammit, goddammit Anne.

“Jacob?” Murphy didn’t seemed phased much, despite her lamenting over it. “No, I haven’t told him. We’ve only been seeing each other about three weeks and… hell, I’m not sure how it goes. It doesn’t seem right, telling someone… it’s not just for that. But to try and have my body back, it’s hard to tell a person. This was an attempt of my own. It sounds selfish.” A pause. “I did tell him I didn’t like pet names. It was something.”

Anne pursed her lips, but nodded nonetheless. “That is something.”

And there returned that uncomfortable silence as they sat there. She thought of getting up to get him ice for his face, but— she didn’t want to leave him alone. Fucking. Why had it been so easy back then, and not now? At the time, when they stood on the bank, when she hugged him, and he hugged her, and it was alright for a moment. She could list all the logical reasons of exhaustion, mentally and physically, from a place she still barely wants to acknowledge as real, but— it had been easy. Then. In that one moment. But it’s not that _easy_ , not after the years spent running on ‘angry’ as default setting, coming out of it, realizing there was nothing left of her life.

Realizing with Murphy out of sight, she had a moment of worry for his well being rather than just continuing on with her own life, putting him in the past wasn’t possible. Scolding him when he actually called her number because she could get in trouble. Because that’s easier than saying _‘You worried me’_ for her.

Right now, in being honest with herself, Murphy might be her only friend. She certainly didn't have friends at work. But it’s so hard to admit that— it’s getting the machine to run backwards, gears struggling against the aligned path. It’s not that fucking easy! No matter what her therapist said. Whatever was resolved in that fucking town, however it made her confront what happened with her father and herself, it did nothing for her disposition. And even so, Anne… had never been good at the ‘nice’ or ‘soft’ even prior to the incident. It only made it worse.

Who knows what Murphy thinks of her now.

Not that he was thinking of much of anything in the moment.

Too many emotions for one night. Simply sitting in a state of numbness was better than the hour spent in a disassociative state not sure what year it had been or what cell he was it. It was better without it, the baggage that comes with it. Being tired and vaguely empty day in and out seemed better than dwelling on the past and dwelling on how little he had left. In his freedom, from prison and guilt, even with the recognition he ruined what he had left of his life and letting Charlie's memory rest as it was. That he had done wrong. It didn't leave him with much else. Freedom was his supposed death, and left him without resources to maybe learn how to get along with his life now. Without being identified and dragged back to somewhere so unsafe; he was left with his cash and his car and nice enough was a phone but that was about it.

Relief was always fleeting, life liked to remind him of that.

He wondered if Jacob would come back after that. He’d kept his cool getting out of bed, but being afraid of the sink? Screaming after falling under a little shower water? That’s not normal. He'd done his best to seem normal.

“That place can’t fix everything, huh. It’d be nice,” he muttered. 

As much as she hated when he brought it up, a smile found its way to her face. “Ha. Yeah. Been nice to leave it and have numbers besides yours in my contacts that actually pick up.”

“Guess I beat you on that. I got you _and_ him.” Two fingers held up to emphasize, which Anne smacked weakly.

“Com’on. Why don’t you go back to bed. A night’s rest will do… something, apparently, people think it fixes everything. Just like fucked up towns that rip open your psyche or whatever happened in there.” She pushed herself to her feet, offering Murphy a hand and hoisting him up when he took it. It was a little fast for him, suddenly being up. He’d been on the ground so long, some part of him felt far away and his head spun to the change. Anne helped him keep balance. That’s nice of her. Maybe it’s pity. (He didn’t really care.) 

From waiting up to explain to Jacob the situation, turned into Anne falling asleep in the arm chair in the corner; waking up the next morning bathed in the son with a blanket over her, Murphy getting dressed and Jacob smoking outside.

Not her best plan.

Not her best moment. What was it she had said over the phone last night, _'some people have jobs'_ ? And the department wasn’t exactly being fucking kind about sick days either, this wasn’t something shirk off from the responsibility for.

And yet she still ended up sitting in a nearby pancake house, sat on one side of a booth meant for two while Jacob and Murphy were crammed together on the other. Honestly. The last place she even wanted to be. (At least she could stop home for clothes first.) (You can go get dressed but you can’t still go into work, Anne?) She couldn’t say no to this, however, when was the last time she’d been invited out to eat? By… a friend. 

Of course, it felt third wheeling with… she still didn’t know what ‘seeing each other’ classified as, does she call him a boyfriend? Could she… ask that now? It seemed like it was a situation she could, right. Normal conversation topic.

“So…” Leaning back, casual pose, nothing so stiff. “How did you two meet?”

“The internet.” “Grindr.” Why did she ask. 

This was followed with some back and forth between them, how they actually met, and how Murphy doesn’t know how grindr _works_ , quaint couples teasing that made her want to gag— and she did, jokingly, pointed down to her throat. Ha, hadn’t done anything easy going like this in a while. It was very unfortunate that the easy attitude was disturbed by learning Jacob was apparently _very_ aware of Murphy's situation to which she couldn't possibly understand _who does that,_ who just tells that sort of ‘Hi I’m a supposedly dead fugitive’ and _who the fuck stays_ after that friendly sort of pillow talk, what sort of people are the both of these assholes.

It was all she could do to keep her voice low and not attract attention, but it didn’t help that this Jacob person found it _hilarious_.

The two were left in a stand still as said boyfriend left the table, and there was that familiar moment for Murphy. He expected her to scold him more, more than probably to leave. (Perhaps it wasn't the best to tell someone like this about it.) (But he liked her.) Murphy didn’t mean to betray her importance this way, (he trusted her) but it seemed to be the only possible end whenever they were interacting. They couldn’t stay together for so long, not without something going wrong. Without him saying something wrong in particular, and (again he was left questioning if it was best to tell her, someone he had to worry about deciding what he said was so reprehensible when he couldn't even tell what it was.) Not the nicest thoughts. And as much as he fought against them, he still waited for whatever would be the final straw.

Instead, he was presented with the same comfort as last night. A hand slid over the table, something open and welcoming and for him to know she’s there. Despite it being the opposite of the rest of her body, glaring out the window and avoiding looking in his direction. Hesitantly, he reached out to put his hand beside hers and was surprised when it was caught, and fingers intertwined.

A momentary squeeze, and his face felt warm.

Neither were sure where it would go from here, or what would become of them. But at least, maybe, they’d have each other in resembling the pieces of their very much broken lives.


End file.
